Burn the heart out of you
by Those sadistic tendencies
Summary: What if the events of "The great game" pool scene had unfolded differently - what if Jim Moriarty had much bigger, twisted, elaborate and sadistic games planned for both Sherlock and John. Warnings for: Violence, torture, graphic whump, possible sexual violence and all around general bleedin misery - emphasis on the bleeding.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock run!" John called as he wrapped an arm around Moriarty`s throat, fully intending to use himself as a distraction so that his friend could escape, even if it was at the cost of his own life. The sniper did not have a clear shot at him, there was too high a chance that the bullet could either hit Moriarty himself or set off the bomb vest, killing them both, and quite possibly Sherlock too. However, in John's eyes, avenging all those that Moriarty had caused the deaths of, and saving any future victims would be worth his life, and possibly injuring Sherlock in the process.

It was a gamble, but John had the upper hand at this current moment in time, he was a soldier and would not just play the hostage if he could help it - not with both his and Sherlock`s lives at stake. The bomb laden vest weighed down very heavily on the doctor`s chest, feeling as though he literally had the weight of the world on his shoulders and chest. The heat from the winter coat, black leather gloves, coat, jumper and shirt he wore in an already sweltering swimming pool, combined with the pressure were making him sweat. But, true to form, he was not shaking – Mycroft had been right (as usual) in his assessment of John coping better under stressful situations – he felt fear – yes, but he did not let it control him or show outwardly, though his voice had shaken slightly when he had had to repeat Moriarty's words as the Irishman fed them through the earpiece, it had been more due to uncertainty and adrenaline, rather than fear.

The world`s only consulting detective and possibly the only man who could stop Moriarty`s schemes was not going to die just because of his sentimental attachment to a mildly crippled ex-army doctor. How that attachment had been formed by the sociopathic detective, John would never know, but formed it had – the look that Sherlock had given him and the way he said his name as John had stepped out of the changing room had confirmed it.

"Oh this is goood, very good!" Moriarty was laughing, still just as annoyingly smug and casual as ever – hands in pockets - even with John`s arm wrapped around his throat and Sherlock still levelling the Browning at the consulting criminal.

"If your sniper pulls that trigger Mr Moriarty, then we both go up." John hissed into Moriarty`s ear, tightening his grip as he did so.

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal." Moriarty's head turned slightly towards John's as he spoke, making John's jaw tighten slightly at the closeness to the villain, the dark haired man noticed the older man's reaction – of course he did – and to John's disgust and disbelief, he briefly planted his lips on the doctor's cheek, grinning as John flinched away, and pulled back his face as much as he could, while still retaining his grip on the man, who chuckled at the reaction.

"But you've rather shown your hand there Doctor Watson, one teensy little thing that you didn't take into consideration Johnny-boy..." Jim practically sang, still chuckling softly.

John frowned slightly, glancing around the darkened swimming pool for something that he could have missed; it took a few seconds before he saw the red dot of a second sniper rifle, this one from an angle slightly higher and to the left of the one that was flickering indecisively over him and Moriarty. There was another sniper that now that he actually looked, was clearly visible in the viewing gallery above the pool, he was situated in such a position and stance that John knew instantly that the man was a professional, however that assessment was somewhat contradicted by the fact that when the sniper's bright blue eyes met John's, he winked and shot the doctor a grin, before pulling the trigger.

He had just enough time to curse under his breath before the click of the gun firing echoed through the room and the bullet found it`s mark. Searing pain erupted from his left knee as the bullet drove its way into his kneecap and smashing through the flesh and bone alike, shattering the tile behind him as the bullet tore straight through. However he could tell that the bullet had somehow separated as it hit so that pieces were now lodged painfully within his body. A sharp scream of utter agony was torn from his lips as his leg instantly gave out beneath him, he fell hard to the side onto the grimy tiles, releasing Moriarty as he did so.

The ex-army doctor`s hands moved down to clutch at his crippled leg, whether out of pure instinct or in some vain attempt to staunch the bleeding and stop the pain, he didn't know. He just knew that this injury was serious, and if left untreated could lead to permanent injury, maybe even amputation – even if he kept his leg, his limp would certainly no longer just be psychosomatic. He had treated less severe knee shot wounds that had still led to amputation of the entire leg – knee-cappings were no laughing matter, though that was exactly what Moriarty was still doing – straightening down his Westwood suit in an unconcerned manner.

All of this had flickered through John`s mind in the space of several seconds and he was now vaguely aware that Sherlock was shouting his name. Concern leaking through the cracks of the high functioning sociopath`s usually calm and unemotional exterior.

"John!" Sherlock took a step forward before a sniper`s red dot found its way onto his own chest, he froze, icy blue-grey eyes flicking from John to Moriarty and back again several times before coming to rest on the consulting criminal with a steely, calm hatred.

"Leave him out of this, you have me here, you have what you wanted, you have made your _point,_ now _leave him alone."_ The last three words were spoken with a slow and fiery determination.

Moriarty laughed, hands still in his pockets and suit barely rumpled, he had the air of a man who knew he had the upper hand and was well used to it. "But why would I do that? Oh mighty Sherlock? As you say, I have you exactly where I want you; you and your _pet_ are completely at my mercy." He laughed yet again, but this time in a more comical villain way than he had before – he was mocking them.

"Because you aren't going to set that bomb off, if you were going to do it you would have already done it by now, and you won`t kill me – not yet, I`m too much _fun,_ one of the few people in the world who could challenge your mind." Sherlock`s lips pulled up minutely in a slightly bitter smile. "The games we could play would keep you entertained _far_ more than just killing us now ever could."

Moriarty`s face had slowly been lighting up with every word that Sherlock had spoken, his twisted pale features looking like a nightmare version of a child at Christmas, and even John`s gasps of pain had quietened slightly as he stared up at Sherlock from the grotty pool flooring. Sherlock eye`s had not left Moriarty`s and the Irishman had not broken the contact either.

There were a tense few moments of silence that seemed to fill the room, stretching out into what felt like years of nearly silently rippling pool water and harsh breathing.

"Well you _would_ be right about me not intending to set the bomb off." Drawled Moriarty, his dark whiskey colored eyes still boring into detective`s. "Buuuut that _might_ be because there was no way that I was going to have this little rendezvous end with a predictable bang – I wouldn't want to be _repeating_ myself now would I?" Both John and Sherlock, twitched slightly as they realized that Moriarty was repeating what Sherlock had said previously about repeating the poisoning exposures in the Pip puzzles – he had obviously been tracking their every word and movement.

Moriarty looked down at John, who had shifted further away from the consulting criminal while he had been talking, a leaving a bloody trail on the tiled floor. Moriarty then made a lunge so fast and unexpected that John couldn't move away from him in time. The Irishman`s fingers gripped his sandy grey-blonde hair and used that hold to pull up John`s head so that his neck was bent at an uncomfortable angle and he was looking up at him. "I think this little game should end with a splash!"

With that, he sent a sharp and entirely overly dramatic kick into John`s chest that sent him falling backwards and into the gently rippling pool water. John sank beneath the surface of the pool with surprising speed and no matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to be able to swim to the surface, despite how much he thrashed. It was as though he was weighed down with a thousand heavy stones, the weight that had previously settled around his chest seemed to have tripled, and it had little to do with the heavy winter coat that he was wearing, it was getting harder not to breathe.

The chlorine stung his widely opened eyes and his head began to pound as he refrained from taking in water through his nose and mouth. He could vaguely hear what he assumed to be Sherlock`s voice shouting, but John was becoming far too preoccupied with the fact that the lack of oxygen was now causing him to lose consciousness fast. His arms flailed about frantically in the water around him, but his body would still not rise from the bottom of the pool, his left leg was useless and the potent combination of oxygen deprivation, pain and blood loss was enough to finally drag him from consciousness.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock could only watch on in horror as John struggled desperately in the water, knowing that he would be shot if he attempted to help his blogger in any way. He calculated the odds to be too far out of his favour - he`d be no use to anyone dead. Instead he glared at Moriarty. There was obviously something wrong with the scene unfolding in the water, John was a soldier and should have been able to swim despite his injury, it was clear that he was struggling more than he should have been.

"What did you do?" He yelled at the consulting criminal who merely chuckled at the obviously furious detective.

"You didn't honestly think that I would dispatch your pet, the _heart_ of Sherlock Holmes, with a mere bomb did you? I don't _do_ predictable." Moriarty took a step towards Sherlock and his eyes sparkled with malice. "That vest wasn't just ever a bomb, all those showy little additions, and those pretty little lights – a good distraction from the obvious eh?"

Sherlock`s face twisted in realization and he took another step towards the pool - John`s splashing and struggles had stopped.

"John!" There was no response from beneath the water and John lay face down and silent at the bottom of the pool, a few air bubbles escaping to the surface, there was still time, he was still alive – for now at least.

Sherlock glanced once at Moriarty before taking a calculated chance and diving into the pool. The water was cold, but he ignored it and dove straight to the bottom, to where John was floating face down on the swimming pool floor. Reaching out a hand to grab his blogger, he tried to pull him back to the surface, but even underwater, the doctor did not move as much as he should have.

Swimming closer, he quickly tugged of the heavy coat and unzipped the vest underneath, the weight of the garment confirmed his suspicions and told him exactly why John had struggled so much – it was lined with lead, not just explosives. Sherlock`s own lungs began to feel the strain of being under water too long, so he swiftly wrapped an arm around the unconscious army-doctor and kicked off of the bottom of the pool, propelling them both to the surface.

Their head`s broke the surface at the same time and Sherlock took great gulps of air, coughing as he did so, concerned when John didn't do the same. He did not have long to worry however, when he was caught by the shirt and pulled from the water by unseen hands, he struggled, trying to get back to John, before something hard and heavy collided with the side of his head and he knew no more.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock awoke to the sounds of various medical equipment beeping and humming away around him. _Blank white walls, a metal bed frame, and a concerned looking young Asian lady in scrubs - hospital._ And judging from the throbbing pain in his head and slightly blurred vision, recovering from a concussion. His body was rather stiff, but he ignored this and pushed himself up and off of the bed, the world spinning rather disconcertingly around him as a result.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled, the nurse sent him a confused look and moved forward looking even more concerned. "Where is he?" The last thing that Sherlock remembered was being dragged out of the pool, it would make sense for John to be in the same hospital as him, and his newly acquired leg injury would need serious treatment. Kneecappings were no laughing matter.

"Mr Holmes, I-I really don't think you should be-" The consulting detective silenced her with a stare and continued to make his unsteady way towards the door, disregarding her fluttering attempts to stop him. He half hurried, half stumbled his way down the following corridor, his vision wavered considerably, but there was only one thing on his mind – John, he had to find his flatmate.

"Sherlock!" He barely turned at the call, recognizing Lestrade`s voice and knowing that the inspector would only most likely irritate him and interrupt his search for John.

"Damn it Sherlock, you're going to hurt yourself." Lestrade`s hand was now on his arm, holding him back, impeding his progress down the hall. Sherlock attempted to shrug him off, but the grip tightened, instead he turned to glare at the inspector, who had a grim expression on his tanned and slightly red face.

 _Reddened skin where irritation has occurred -_ _different moisturizer – using someone else`s - conclusion – new lover - rich judging by the scent of Tom Ford – familiar scent-_ Sherlock mentally shook himself, now wasn't the time for deducing the obvious relationship advancements between Lestrade after his divorce.

"Where is he? Where is John?" There was a distinct pause, in which Lestrade ran a hand over his face in a weary fashion _."Where?"_

"Listen Sherlock, we only found you in that pool, there was quite a bit of blood and you clearly had a concussion, no one has seen John since he left Baker street, Mycroft`s cameras picked him up when he first got snatched just after leaving your flat, but..." Lestrade took a deep shuddering breath. "He`s gone, John Watson is officially listed as missing."

 **Hi, this is my first Sherlock fic and i really would appreciate lots of feedback and followers - also I left some cheeky fandom things in there for you guys, and I plan on doing so in further chapters too. Please read and review! And a quick note to my reviewers, thanks guys for the feedback and although this is my first Sherlock fiction - I'm not new to the fandom , love the show and can't wait for more feedback from fellow Cumberbitches. PS: Do not own 'Sherlock'**


	2. Dear John

**Dear John and all the Kings men couldn't put your head together again**

John blearily awoke to the unpleasant sensation of someone else's lips on his own and a sharp blow to the centre of his chest; he coughed hard and simultaneously took in a huge gasp of air into aching lungs. As he coughed, water spewed forth from his mouth and he jerked forward, vaguely aware of cold, wet tile beneath his hands as he tried to push himself up from where he had been laying on his side, but his limbs were weak and his body felt very heavy. Someone's hands grabbed him from behind and John struggled to move away from the grasping hands in a blind panic, he then felt a sharp prick in the skin of his neck before darkness claimed him once more.

An indiscernible amount of time later, John floated back into consciousness as fingers were placed from his neck, presumably to check his pulse. He was somewhere else now; he could discern that much, as he no longer smelt chlorine or felt tiles beneath him, but his eyes and limbs still felt heavy and distant from himself. While he still remained uncomfortable and somewhat confused, he did not struggle, realising that he was in no state to fight whoever was currently checking his vital signs, or really do anything at all – his head felt so muddled, his chest tight, and his body was aching, cold and heavy.

The touch withdrew, but he did not open his eyes, his body felt strangely numb, especially centred on his leg, though beneath that numbness he felt a pain that burned through the limb like wildfire - a strange contradiction of agony and nothingness. Must be the lingering after-effects of whatever he had been drugged with that was causing the numbness, but he could tell that it was now wearing off slowly.

He attempted to begin the arduous task of sitting up to see where he was and what the hell kind of mess that Sherlock had gotten him into now – living with a crime solving sociopath had a certain risk level to it after all. However he was alarmed and rather vexed to discover that he couldn't move. Panic began to filter through the fog in his brain, making his breathing quicken and heart pound, before his soldier's instincts kicked in and he very deliberately held his breath for a moment before letting it out slowly. He made sure to keep his eyes closed – _maintain control over your body before assessing your situation._

 _First priority – find out why you can't move._ Experimentally, he once more tried to lift his hands, soon discovering the cold metal that was clasped around his wrists, binding him to the arms of what he assumed to be a chair. And when he tried to move his legs, he found that they too were restrained, they were also bound to what felt like metal but slightly apart. Without even having his eyes open, he realised that he was bound to what seemed to be a metal version of a dentist's chair, slightly reclined and that he had no chance of escaping. The metal bands around his wrists and ankles were far too tight and well secured. _Okay then._

Deciding that he would have to open his eyes to better assess his situation, John slowly cracked open both of his eyelids. He was in a brightly lit, concrete floored room, plain white walls, one visible entrance – steel door, bolted and keypad locked – his chair seemed to be the only furniture in the room.

There was a blank screen monitor bolted to the wall directly in front of him. He wasn't alone however, a tall balding man, late thirties, with large muscular features and wearing a plain black shirt and trousers was standing silently by the door. Presumably this was also the man who had checked on him, as there was no one else in sight; John glanced down at his leg, in an attempt to discover the source of the strange numbness, and then blanched as his memories returned to him in a sudden flood of clarity.

He remembered the pool, Moriarty little speeches, the heavy weight of the bomb vest on his chest, Sherlock's calm fury, being shot and then drowning in the same pool in which Karl Powers had done years before him. So, the question was – why is he alive now? What further use did he have to Moriarty? How was he going to be used against Sherlock this time? None of the answers to this question that John could come up with were in any way good – for him or for Sherlock, or humankind on general to be honest.

He looked again to the man standing vigil by the door, he wasn't even looking at him, just staring straight ahead, posture stiff and light blue eyes focused. John knew that there would be no point in addressing his silent companion; he was obviously waiting for something or someone – most likely Moriarty.

John sat there for several minutes of tense silence before the evil genius decided to make an appearance. Said evil genius was wearing the same immaculate suit that he had donned to meet Sherlock at the pool. He swaggered in slowly, flanked by two more men in plain black clothing – one man blonde and the other red headed. The ginger man was standing closer to Moriarty than the other and John recognised him as the sniper who had shot him at the pool – the man winked at him again. _Creep._

Moriarty sauntered through the steel door like he had all of the time in the world – which he most likely did - his hands in his trouser pockets and looking utterly relaxed.

"Feeling better now Johnny-boy?" Moriarty asked, his tone deceptively soft and dripping with false concern.

"What do you want Mr Moriarty?" John asked, finally breaking his silence, he made sure to use the man's title – or lack thereof – it was something that the army taught when giving out interrogation training. Titles kept the subject in their place and also acted as a way of establishing a feeling of disassociation. Although John already knew who was in control of this situation, it helped to keep him calm all the same – this was different from being a hostage or being at the wrong end of a gun – this was unpredictable and Moriarty was volatile and capable of ordering violence on a whim.

"Oh come now John, no need to be so formal here" Moriarty chuckled. "It's just us after all" He sauntered over until he was standing by John's chair, the two henchmen stayed back. John resolutely remained silent.

"Playing the surly soldier are we now Johnny-boy?" Moriarty chuckled, he was obviously building up to something, he just wanted to draw out the situation in order to demean John and break through his calm exterior.

"What do you want? What are you going to do this time?" John demanded, staring up at Moriarty with force, he'd rather know what he was about to endure, half the pain would be not knowing.

"You're going to help me send Sherlock a message; he didn't seem to quite understand how serious I am when I say..." Moriarty took a step forward, his dark eyes boring into John's, as he slowly circled around to the back of his chair. "I will not have him meddling in my affairs, I'm perfectly happy to play almost anytime he wants, but he needs to understand that he can't win."

Moriarty leant over the side of John's shoulder, lips right by his ear and he spoke. "Because I win, I will _always_ win and _you_ are how I know that." Another somewhat sinister chuckle left the man's lips; he placed a hand on John's left shoulder, his bad shoulder and squeezed slightly, just enough to be uncomfortable.

"You're his weakness John, and I'm going to make sure that everyone knows it." He tightened his grip momentarily before releasing it and straightening up.

"You're wrong." John didn't know why his voice cracked slightly as he said it, but Moriarty merely gave him a Cheshire grin and moved over to speak quietly to his ginger henchman.

John found that the pain in his leg was slowly becoming more persistent and that the numbness was receding. He had the feeling that he had been drugged with something pretty potent – definitely not any street level drugs if John was any gauge - presumably to keep him unconscious while they had transported him to where ever he was now. But whatever it was it was now wearing off much faster than when he had first woken. If nothing else, Moriarty had certainly provided a good distraction from the inevitable pain of a kneecapping and drowning experience.

"Now there are a few rules to this game Johnny-boy." Moriarty suddenly was back by his chair, his tone business like but with a hint of excitement to it – whatever this 'game' was; John had a feeling that he wasn't going to enjoy it.

"First of all, you're not allowed to speak to our dear consulting detective." Moriarty shot him another Cheshire grin and motioned to his redheaded companion. "And as you've proven yourself to be rather untrustworthy in our last little game, I'm going to be taking some precautions."

The redheaded man approached John with what looked like a black rubber ball bag in his hands. It was the sort that people used in kinky sex and pornos – clearly yet another attempt to degrade him further, probably to get to Sherlock as well. John glared at Moriarty, he wasn't going to let that be put on him if he could help it – he pulled in vain against the metal encasing his wrists and of course it didn't budge. The redheaded man grinned and went behind the chair, the next second the ball was pressed against his lips, John kept them firmly closed.

The redheaded henchmen grabbed his shoulder and squeezed hard, digging his nails into the precise spot where a bullet had once lodged itself in his flesh. John gritted his teeth against the pain; the man increased the pressure until John gasped and the man took the opportunity and slipped the ball gag into his mouth, wedging it firmly in between his teeth. He buckled the gag tightly at the back of his head and stepped back to allow Moriarty to take his place to the side and slightly behind the chair.

"I would apologise for this, a little vulgar maybe - but it was really all we had to hand." Moriarty leant in close to John's face, and smirk painted across his pale features, there was a spark of something that John didn't like in the Irishman's eye. "But I'm sure Sherlock won't mind, and I have to say that Sebastian doesn't seem to either. You should probably feel honoured Johnny - he doesn't usually like sharing his toys."

The redheaded sniper – Sebastian apparently – shot John yet _another_ smirk and commented casually, in an Irish brogue that matched Moriarty's own, but was deeper "My favourite." And then reached down to tap the gag with one long finger.

John glared up at Moriarty and Sebastian in disgust, why did everyone always think that he and Sherlock were together? Why did he seem to draw the attention of sociopaths? With no verbal way of expressing his frustrations, John threw his head forward, slamming it as hard as he could into Moriarty's nose. There was an incredibly satisfying crunch as his nose broke and blood spurted across both of their faces, Moriarty reared back from John and the doctor allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

But then Moriarty turned back to John and there was utter madness in his eyes, with blood dripping down his face onto his suit, a feral grin that stretched his lips wide and his dark eyes wild – John realized that he had definitely made a mistake.

"Oh Johnny, you really shouldn't have done that." Moriarty purred, looking down at John in a sort of satisfied excitement that only the truly insane could achieve. He reached forward and grabbed John's chin, forcing his face around to face the monitor on the wall, which was now active. Sebastian pulled John's head back by his hair and tightened a strap that fastened across the doctor's forehead, pinning him to the headrest.

"Say hello pet."

 **Hope you liked the second installation of this fic, also I hope I'm getting the characters right. My method of writing is based on me reading them with the actors voices in my head – if I can't imagine the actor saying it, I dint write it. Anyways, please read and review, and thank you so much to my reviewers so far love you guys. PS: still don't own Sherlock.**


	3. From hell with love

Sherlock's face filled the previously blank screen in front of John, he stared at it as if it was a personal lifeline and Sherlock's pale cerulean eyes stared back out from that pale face.

"John." The word isn't a question or a shout – it is simply Sherlock acknowledging that it is indeed his friend that is on what is presumably his laptop's screen. John can see the wallpaper of 221B Baker Street behind Sherlock's face, the dimming orange light on the wall tells him that it is sunset, so he knows that he has been gone for at least 12 hours after the Pool incident.

John does not attempt to reply, knowing that trying to speak around the rather humiliating gag would be pointless and would most likely just give Moriarty more ammunition with which to mock the both of them. He merely fixed his eyes on Sherlock's – staring straight ahead, trying to ignore Moriarty who released his grip on John's chin and grinned, with his dark eyes flicking from the screen to John and back again.

"Hello again Sherlock, I apologise for the abruptness and rather clichéd dramatics – but your pet seemed rather impatient to be getting on with things, and to tell you the truth I can understand why..." Moriarty's eyes glittered maliciously and his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips momentarily. "We're going to have _so much fun._ "

"Boring Jim." Said Sherlock; still staring straight ahead in his usual expression of indifference, though there was a muscle in his face that was jumping slightly as he spoke.

"Oh don't try that one on me Sherlock; we both know that you care about Johnny-boy here, your reaction to any previous threats towards him proved that obvious enough." Moriarty fixed Sherlock with a faux disapproving look and wagged his finger at him as the consulting detective was a misbehaving child.

Both Sherlock and John rolled their eyes at that one, though neither of them made comment – not that John could.

"Oh come on boys! Where's your sense of fun?" Moriarty asked, but then his eyes hardened. "But in all seriousness..." Moriarty released John's face and stood slightly to the side, staring down at John with cold black eyes. "That leg wound of yours really needs taking care of – wouldn't want you to be a _cripple,_ now would we?"

The consulting criminal saw how John flinched slightly at the word, Moriarty's lips twitched upward slightly, but his eyes remained icy. "However would you run about after Sherlock on all his little adventures otherwise?" he asked in a half-whisper.

John's breathing increased, he knew that something bad was coming, and despite all of his soldier's training, he was scared – John Watson was _scared._ And rightly so.

A metal table was wheeled into his cell, upon it, John recognised various pieces of medical equipment – but what concerned him most was that he could see an IV of some kind, but it was filled with a thick green liquid that was most definitely not painkillers. It appeared that they were going to perform treatment on his fractured kneecap without any anaesthetic, and mostly likely in the most barbaric way that they could. John felt tears burning at the back of his eyes, but he blinked hard and tried to fix his gaze solely upon the ceiling as he heard the medical instruments being moved about on the metal table.

The blonde henchman approached the chair and pulled across yet another metal band that closed just over John's knee – presumably to keep it in place while they worked. The one Moriarty called 'Seb' pulled up John's sleeve on his left arm and none-too-gently inserted a needle into his flesh. Whatever solution was in the IV was now entering his system and John could very quickly feel everything around him getting sharper. The pain in his leg more acute, his chest and throat ached further, and his vision was suddenly much brighter and more focused than it had been. The doctor also recognised the familiar rush of adrenaline as it flushed though his body – whatever was in this solution was designed to keep him awake and hyper-aware. This thought scared him even more.

He heard Sherlock's voice over the speakers then and if he didn't know the detective any better, he would say that he sounded slightly panicked. "Moriarty!" The aforementioned chuckled, clearly enjoying his distress, but otherwise ignored the consulting detective.

John tried to focus on breathing evenly as the redheaded sniper approached him once more; he gripped the material of his left trouser leg and ripped it open, baring the wound further. John glanced down at it, from this angle and without his clothes in the way, the doctor could see the still-bleeding bullet puncture and could see the way the marred flesh was only barely covering the clearly fractured bone pieces.

"Now I must admit that Sebastian doesn't have the best medical experience in the room." Moriarty commented in a light, airy tone, as John began to struggle in his bindings. "So you may have to guide us a bit Johnny-boy, as the resident doctor in the house."

Moriarty leaned into put his ear by John's face, smirking slightly. "No? No advice to give? Well I guess that Seb will just have to go in free hand won't he?" John began to make muffled protests through the ball-gag that were quickly turned into a stifled scream as Sebastian placed his scalpel on the skin of John's injured knee, and began to cut into the marred flesh.


	4. Through a lens of glass

_Comminuted fracture of the patella - bleeding , wound size and shape, swelling and blackened bruising indicates bullet did not go straight through kneecap even at high speed from a distance much closer than needed for a weapon of that calibre – conclusion – shrap bullets._ All of this flicked through Sherlock's mind as his cold blue-grey eyes examined the bloody wound in John Watson's leg, revealed by Moran as he cut into the flesh. He recognised the sniper as both one of Moriarty's most faithful lackeys pictured on several occasions at the scenes of gruesome murders but never caught or convicted. The man was ex-military and notoriously sadistic and equally skilled in the arts of murder, torture and coercion – a perfect choice for Moriarty's right hand man.

John's muffled groans of pain filled 221B Baker Street as Sherlock watched on his laptop. The video feed was untraceable and had switched on his laptop in order to be received; Moriarty had already proven to be beyond savvy with technology after all. Sherlock noticed how hard John was trying not to show his pain, the way John squeezed his eyes shut to prevent the emotion leaking out through the tainted blue-brown, the way his teeth clenched down hard on the ball-gag that was meant to further humiliate him.

But the detective's trained eye could see how much it hurt him – even Anderson would have been able to see the agony that the doctor was clearly in. Moran continued to slice his blade along the flesh, parting it to reveal the broken bone beneath. John's muffled groans quickly turned to a scream as Moran dug the scalpel in the crack between the two fractured parts of kneecap and dug around, twisting the blade, very inexpertly searching for the slight chunks of bullet that he knew to be there, soon bringing a pair of tweezers into play as well. A shot like that should have gone straight through John's knee, but parts of the bullet were still lodged within the knee – keeping the broken pieces of kneecap separate. Having studied old cases that Moran had been suspected in before, he knew the vicious kind of bullet that the sniper had most likely used – they were meant to cause pain. Moriarty had most likely planned to take out John and capture him from the very start.

John's eyes were now rolling back with unsuppressed agitation and his whole body was sweating and bucking, trying to free itself from the agony, it took all Sherlock had not to just tell John to stop struggling – as it would only make his pain worse. The consulting detective knew that the words would be redundant – there was nothing he could say or do at this point that could help his friend. The youngest Holmes had never felt so helpless. He could tell from the satisfied look on Moriarty's face that John's suffering had only just begun and that he would enjoy every moment of it – and all because it would hurt Sherlock.

All this was – all it ever had been to Moriarty - was a game between the two of them and John was now a helpless pawn in it all. _Alone is what I have, Alone is what protects me._ Sherlock had never considered that while it protected him – it did not protect others. As Sherlock watched his friend be operated on with no pain medication, by an unintelligent baboon with a scalpel, he could feel the rage burning like fire within him – Moriarty had said he wanted to burn him? He could feel it. It burned his insides like wildfire, and Moriarty knew it.

The bullet chunks made metallic clinks as they were pried out of John's knee, not that the sounds could really be heard much over John's muted howls of pain. Moriarty chuckled and gently ran his hand over the doctor's blond-grey hair in what would usually be a soothing motion, but in these conditions just made John shudder violently and attempt move his head, to no affect. "Shh Johnny-boy, it'll be over soon, don't you worry." The psychopath cooed in his ear, making Sherlock feel rage and disgust bubble up in his throat like bile. His pale fingers dug into the arms of the sofa chair.

The next stage was going to be even harder to watch, Sherlock had long ago memorised many a medical procedure, and he had those sorts of things locked up in a corner of his mind palace for cases. If he was going to follow proper procedure Moran was now going to attach a steel plate to join the broken pieces of bone together. Sebastian had the plate in his hand and was preparing to begin screwing it into his kneecap.

At that point however, there was a loud bang on the outside of the room that Sherlock could see – an explosion surely. John twitched at the sudden noise, what looked to be a cloud of gas began to appear in Sherlock's view of the concrete room. Moriarty swore, gesturing to his henchmen and looking uncharacteristically rattled. Then the screen went blank. Sherlock stared on at the blank screen in bafflement and dawning horror.


	5. Dial-a-scream

Sherlock cursed loudly once again into his phone as his brother stumbled over an out-of-character half-apology. Sherlock cursed his brother's lack of concern for John's life, he had sent his men into the first bolt hole that they knew Moriarty had, and now those men were dead and they had no further leads on John's condition. Mycroft was more concerned with catching Moriarty for his government superiors then with bringing John back alive, it was rare that Sherlock was showing more emotion and concern than any other person.

How John Watson had ever crept his way into Sherlock's heart, he couldn't fathom, but it had happened and now the very thought of the man being used as a disposable pawn by his arch-nemesis made an unfamiliar fire burn to life inside him. There was a larger part of him than he would likely admit that was reminding him in snide tones that this is exactly where _feelings and caring_ got you. Why do living things need feelings? It only impeded the thought process and caused unnecessary pain – just like the pain he was feeling right now.

As he had been listening to Mycroft's half-assed explanations as to why he had made a rash decision with John's life on the line, Sherlock had been watching the CCTV footage of John's initial capture. The doctor had only gotten a street away from the flat when a black SUV with tinted windows had pulled up abruptly onto the pavement in front of him. Three men proceeded to leap from the vehicle and made short work of grabbing John by the arms, one slapping his hand around the doctor's mouth to stifle his shouts.

Sherlock was proud to see that the army doctor managed to get in a few good kicks, before one of the men slammed a fist into the side of John's head. The shorter man slumped in their grips, momentarily stunned as his captors took the opportunity to haul him into the back of the SUV, slamming the door quickly and driving away - unfortunately only two letters of the registration plate were visible from the angle of the security camera.

Though the footage itself was largely irrelevant in finding John now, it did help Sherlock to see the kind of men that worked for Moriarty – they were thugs. They were disposable thugs, thus why they were allowed to be seen kidnapping and assaulting in plain sight. None had been masked and it was clear that they were not going to be of any use even if Lestrade and the idiots at Scotland Yard managed to track them down. They were mostly likely in the middle men who dropped John at the 'bolt hole' that had been shown in the video as it was a building of little to no importance – Moriarty had dozens of properties in England alone.

Sherlock swore inwardly again as he realized that Moriarty had obviously wanted him to see this. The consulting criminal was resourceful and careful enough for his men to have taken John with no surveillance on them. He was taunting him.

He finally tuned back into Mycroft's speech for lack of anything better to do.

"You need to start behaving like a grown up Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed down the phone line.

"And you need to start using that _oh so magnificent_ brain of yours! If your incompetent apes hadn't gone barging in when they did, we could be sure of John's condition."

The younger Holmes heard a frustrated sigh from down the line.

"If you would take a moment to stop insulting me, you might be interested to know what we have found a way in which to contact Mr Moriarty." Mycroft paused for a moment. "One of his men left a note attached onto the corpse of Agent Bridges, it was simply a phone number with the words 'hugs and kisses Sherlock' written beneath."

Another sigh rattled down the line, Mycroft's tone demonstrating his distaste and impatience for the mocking endearments. Sherlock's own lip twisted in disgust as Mycroft read out the phone number to him across the phone.

Sherlock punched in the number as Mycroft spoke it, not even pausing before hitting call. There was a pause, then a beep and then-

" _Hi! This is John and-"_

 _*sickening popping and crunching sounds*_ (most likely breaking fingers)

" _-CHRIST!"_

" _Now there's no need to call me that dear, we both know my ego doesn't need any further inflating."_

 _*more cracking noises followed by gasping*_ (another bone broken)

" _SAY IT!"_

 _*a sound that isn't quite a crunch but more of a slurping sound along with it*_ (Sherlock couldn't think what could have caused that particular noise and honestly didn't really want to)

" _FUCKING HELL!...MORIARTY!"_

" _Now you know that's not the right answer don't ya?"_

 _*a fleshy thumping sound that resembled something sharp being stabbed into wood followed by a scream*_

" _JIM!"_

* _chuckling_ *

" _We can't come to the phone right now, please leave a message after the tone!"_

 _*A high pitched scream that nearly drowns out the loudest crack yet*_

 **Sorry again about delays, hope you get the cheeky reference in there from a certain unnamed TV show about brothers ;) Please read and review!**

 **Thank you very much to LookAgain for the recent review as it made me come back to re-write the existing chapters and endeavour to continue this further! You are a star!**


	6. Chapter 6

Despite the rather disturbing message that had been left on the contact number and the clear evidence that John was still being tortured, the most significant thing that Sherlock had gleaned from the case so far was that this was highly out of character for the consulting criminal. In the short time that Sherlock had actually met him, combined with the few months of prior investigation into his criminal web, Moriarty had never, even once allowed himself to be caught in photo, or on video surveillance. Yet in the space of less than three days, the Irishman had exposed himself in more ways than ever before – even going so far as to leaving a viable recording of his voice that could likely be used against him should he ever be taken to court for his crimes. Up until now, Sherlock had only been able to gather his information due to speculation and forming patterns of behaviour that he alone had been able to recognise in the consulting criminals actions.

Even his henchman had largely been disposable thugs who weren't useful in tracing Moriarty's locations or criminal network; most were mysteriously killed, genuinely clueless or else blackmailed into silence. Sherlock had pursued many leads over the past several months alone, leaving John out of the cases partly due to concern for his wellbeing, but primarily due to the fact that the doctor simply wouldn't have been able to keep up with him mentally or physically. Though Sherlock took pride in the fact that John's psychosomatic limp had largely disappeared in the short time they had lived together, the army doctor was still not in any real position to be following Sherlock into criminal dens or the seedier parts of London. Espionage was also a key part of how Sherlock had pieced together his information on Moriarty – a skill that he doubted John would be able to successfully employ as the doctor was simply just too honest of a man. He may be a much more capable fighter than his small stature, knitted jumpers and gentlemanly exterior might suggest, but a master infiltrator he was not.

But now John was stuck right in the middle of Moriarty's web – like the proverbial fly, the doctor was trapped until Moriarty decided to either devour him or Sherlock managed to find him. This wasn't just like the previous games that Moriarty had set out for him – this was a warning, this was a way for the consulting criminal to demonstrate his power over Sherlock; a way to show his weakness. One thing still bugged Sherlock however - showing his face on camera and providing a record of his voice was so uncharacteristic that the warning bells were ringing loud and clear in the detective's head. _"I don't like getting my hands dirty"_ he had said. So why was he now? What was so important about this game that he would risk exposure? What was his endgame? Moriarty is practically the Napoleon of crime; he is the organizer of half that is evil and nearly all that is undetected in the city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only plans.

 _So why risk exposing himself? Why risk 'getting his hands dirty'?_ It was so infuriatingly uncharacteristic that Sherlock was having trouble focussing on anything outside of his mind palace. He lay as he had done for the past eight hours, sprawled out on the leather sofa, finger curled through his dark curls and the other hand pressed into the crook of his elbow, just underneath where three nicotine patches dotted his skin. The nicotine seemed to be doing little to stave off the usual cravings that occurred whenever a particularly difficult or stimulating case arose – the craving for _something_ more stimulating. The craving for something that would make his brain whirs like the well oiled machine it was. The craving for that special _something_ that would make his mind excel while his body crashed... he couldn't do that now. John needed him to be at his best if Sherlock ever stood a chance of freeing him from the web before the spider devoured him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When he awoke, John was hit with the overwhelming urge to curse in a way that would have made his mother blush (God rest her soul), his whole body still felt like lead that had been melted, re-formed and then broken apart just for the fun of it. Thankfully his brain was far less foggy than it had been the last time he had woken – Sebastian had resorted to hitting him over the head instead of drugging him this time. While he was somewhat glad of the lack of drug induced fog in his mind, he was not particularly grateful for the mild concussion he was now experiencing in its place. Contrary to popular belief, people did not go unconscious easily – not unless they were hit in the right place that is – Sebastian must have had experience in the field as the blow John had received knocked him out instantly.

John supposed that they hadn't wanted to risk killing him by mixing contrasting drugs in his system so had instead opted for the simpler, yet more brutal method of ensuring his cooperation. The last things he remembered before being knocked out were the smoke bomb that had been thrown into the room and the shouts of several armed men barging into the room, there had been a few shots fired before Sebastian had used the metal plate he had been holding to strike out at the side of John's head.

As he opened his eyes once more, he was pleasantly surprised to find that there were relatively few black spots dancing in his vision, and that the room he was now in was dimly lit – much easier on his throbbing headache than the previous halogen lights would have been. John was still restrained in a sitting position, but now he was seated in a fairly average metal folding chair, his arms extended out onto the stainless steel table directly in front of him and held in cuffs that locked across his wrists and bolted straight into the table's surface. Unfortunately the ball-gag was still in place; wedged firmly between his teeth in such a way that John could feel where the saliva had spilled out of his mouth while he was unconscious, creating dried sticky trails down his chin. His feet were now also free – not that it really helped him due to the state of his mutilated leg – and he became aware that he had been placed in the centre of another blank room... and that an empty chair sat facing his across the table.

As he was restrained to the table in the centre of the room he could only really see what was in front of him, which was a blank white wall and the single electric lighting sconce that was fitted to it. That was why, when a pair of warm hands suddenly landed on his shoulders from behind, he flinched violently and let out the aforementioned string of curses under his breath. There was a low chuckle from behind him and the man gripping his shoulders gave them a gentle squeeze, rubbing them in a repulsively affectionate manner. John shuddered and tried to pull forwards and away from the grip once more but could not due to the awkward slightly hunched over position that the restraints held him in.

"Calm down there Johnny." The low Irish accented voice sounded directly next to his ear, so close in fact that the man's lips brushed the shell, sharp teeth catching it and biting down slightly. John gasped and jerked away once more, the man let him, still chuckling in a strange, throaty way under his breath. The hands remained on him however, still massaging, slowly making their way down his shoulders, down his back until they rested on John's hips – there his grip doubled, strong fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. John's breathing increased as his heart began to pound faster in panic; he shifted uncomfortably on the chair. _What was he doing?_

"You're a fighter aren't you Johnny?" the voice murmured, still brushing his earlobe. "You're a soldier – like me, but not quite as skilled though." Another throaty laugh and the hands shifted slightly, around his hips towards John's thighs. "You were too _moral_ to go my route weren't you Johnny? Good little soldier? Good little boy."

John's swallowed, wishing beyond anything that he wasn't in such a vulnerable position, that he wasn't gagged so could tell the perverted psycho to get the hell off of him, that he wasn't restrained so that he could knock the bastard's teeth out with one good punch, that his leg wasn't useless so he could kick the growing bulge he could feel pressed against his lower back through the space between the frame of the chair and the backrest. But there was nothing he could do no matter how much he pulled on the metal encasing his wrists. John wasn't used to feeling so helpless, he was used to being the one who could fight his way out of anything – even against all the odds. But he couldn't.

"Now, now Seb, what did I tell you?" John never thought he would be so happy to hear the voice of Jim Moriarty as he was at that moment. Sebastian released John reluctantly and moved to stand at attention on the other side of the table, shooting John a sickening wink as he did so. Moriarty moved into John's line of sight a moment later and all of the previous relief he had felt at the man's intervention vanished in a split second at the sight of the heavy looking claw hammer the Irishman held in his hands. John felt his blood run cold as Moriarty handed the hammer off to Sebastian who took it with an experienced grip and an eager grin. Moriarty took out a shiny, brand new looking mobile phone, placing it on the table before John; he saw that it was set up to record a answering machine message and glanced back up at the two Irishman confusedly.

"I warned Seb that he wasn't allowed to play until I said so, but you know how excitable boys can be sometimes." Moriarty drawled, grinning in an endearing fashion at his red-headed henchman, who replied with a faux-disappointed pout. John merely glared, unable to reply until Moriarty nodded to Sebastian who proceeded to remove the gag. Thankful that the ball-gag was now gone – as it was one less discomfort and humiliation to deal with, John looked back up at Moriarty with a glare.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, voice cracking slightly from disuse.

"We're going to leave Sherlock our next little message and I'm going to need your help with that again John." Moriarty replied as Sebastian moved around to place himself next to John's other side, hammer raised above his right hand in a clearly threatening gesture. Moriarty reached over and tapped the icon on the phone's screen to start it recording before he spoke in a deliberately cheerful voice.

"Hi! This is Jim and-"

The hammer descended.


End file.
